


all that glitters is gold

by MarionetteFtHJM



Series: Goth Himbo Geralt archetype fics [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barebacking, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Geralt is a gentle giant, Geralt is an idiot but he tries, Geralt is smitten, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Getting Together, Hair Braiding, Happy Ending, Jaskier is a feral little bastard, Jaskier is sneaky, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Yennefer once again the best wingwoman, customs and traditions, gifts and trinkets, he just doesnt know it yet, minimal angst, slight power bottom Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22361185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarionetteFtHJM/pseuds/MarionetteFtHJM
Summary: Jaskier marks his territory (Geralt) in subtle ways and Geralt, being an uncultured dumbass, doesn't realize it until Yennefer points it out to him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Goth Himbo Geralt archetype fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609732
Comments: 125
Kudos: 5623
Collections: Finished Fics I Love





	all that glitters is gold

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY HI it's me again and i'd just like to say that wow this fandom's really blowing up and i'm thankful to be able to create for it  
> That being said, if you want a deeper development of either of these characters then go check out my other fic [a broken pot can still hold water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22233892/chapters/53089534) because this is purely Geralt being a dumbass and Jaskier being a lowkey possesive little shit but also him being sweet and charming and Geralt being somewhat more gentle with him  
> This operates under this assumption that ep Bottled appetites happened before the child surprise cintra party one (which idek if it did) and that Jaskier was with Geralt when he dealt with the Striga and had met Triss and that theyr'e all friends.  
> Anyway, enjoy! No beta we die like mortals!  
> OH ALSO LMAO I invented most of the customs and traditions in question so that shit aint canon at all

Geralt has been travelling with the mouthy bard for a while now. It’s probably been three years on and off since he’d met the ridiculous minstrel but sometimes it’s hard to tell how much time has passed when years tend to blend into the same mass of monster hunting, surviving and travelling deserted road. However, travelling with Jaskier makes these three years diverse enough for him to know the difference. He hates that he’d started labeling his time on the road as _pre-Jaskier_ travels and _post-Jaskier_ travels. However, it is a necessity since his travels had become more troublesome since he’d been joined by the bard. So the _post-Jaskier_ travels are always labeled as the more perilous ones. Not that he hadn’t been in danger before but it’s always more dangerous when you have someone else to look out for.

Like right now, as he watches Jaskier booking it across the plains where they’d stopped to let Roach graze for a moment, running from a pack of wild dogs that he’d somehow managed to find.

“Geralt!” The bard screams, “Geralt get your big, pointy swords out and help me!”

He sighs, rubbing a hand along Roach’s flank with a shake of his head. Of course Jaskier had managed to find a pack of wild dogs in the midst of nowhere surrounded by nothing but grassy hills and the blue sky.

Jaskier trips over a clump of dirt and Geralt unsheathes his sword.

All things considered, travelling with the bard isn’t as bad as he makes it out to be sometimes. Sure Jaskier gets into unnecessarily idiotic trouble because he can’t keep his cock in his own chicken coop, but he works his little arse off singing and entertaining to provide them with a bed and a roof over their head. Sometimes a bath, too.

“You had to piss off the wild dogs, didn’t you?” Geralt grunts, shoving Jaskier into the inn where they’ll be staying for the night because Geralt had gotten a little torn up, bloodied and pissed on by the dogs so he definitely needed a bath. 

“It’s not my fault, Geralt! I was looking for a good spot to take a piss, far away from you so that I don’t offend your _sensitive sensibilities_ with the stench of it all and they were just there! I got scared and started running and they gave chase, you know it’s like they were waiting for us!” Jaskier rambles pointlessly as Geralt herds him up the stairs where their room is. Unfortunately, Jaskier had managed to sing the people out of only a single bed for the night so Geralt will have to either take the floor or make Jaskier sleep on it. And making the bard do something that he disliked doing will only earn him a forenoon of complaining about how he’d done the thing he disliked doing for Geralt’s sake.

“Really, now, one would think the two of us in combination attract trouble!” Jaskier chirps happily, entirely oblivious to the fact that trouble seems to follow him relentlessly wherever he goes.

“Hm,” He shoves the bard to the side and starts undressing, eager to rid himself of the stench of blood and death. At least Roach had gotten plenty of fresh grass out of their little venture today.

He eases himself into the water and hums, leaning back against the side of the bath and letting his muscles relax. He hopes Jaskier doesn’t bother trying to talk to him for the evening; he’s had quite enough of the other’s chatter even _if_ he’d gone and ignored half of it. But he likes the blessed silence that’s descended upon him now. Because, as a matter of fact, Jaskier’s been rather quiet since they’d gotten into the room. He cracks an eye open and spots Jaskier sitting on the ground, bright eyed and fiddling with some lightly colored liquids in variously sized glass vials.

“What. Are you doing.” He grunts because chances are that something is either going to blow up or poison one of them if Jaskier is handling it.

“Oh!” Jaskier startles. “I’m making you a perfumed soap! Something inoffensive yet strong enough to cover the wet dog stench that seems to cling to your leather.”

That’s – well, that’s oddly thoughtful. “I didn’t know they taught perfume-making at the Oxenfurt academy.”

“I didn’t know _you_ knew I went there!” The bard beams at him and Geralt’s stomach grumbles a little for some reason. Maybe he’s still hungry.

“There’s only one place in all the kingdoms that produces minstrels as annoying and as persistent as you.” He rolls his eyes and closes them, resolving himself to letting Jaskier do as he pleases.

“And as talented as me!” The bard hums cheerfully, completely competent in his abilities like always.

He scrubs himself idly with the water and the scentless soap, wishing that the water was warmer than it is. At least it’s clean. The last river he’d bathed in was muddy and filled with dead fish. Unfortunate.

“Ah, smell this, let’s see how it fares.” Jaskier hobbles over to the side of the tub and holds a little vial out for him. “It’s a liquid soap but I won’t drop it in if you deem it unworthy.”

Sighing, he sits up straight, mourning the loss of warmth against his chest as the water level drops. He takes the vial and sniffs at it tentatively – well, he doesn’t gag immediately so that’s a plus. It smells a lot like lindens in the spring, fresh and gentle. He inhales deeper and grunts his consent.

Jaskier claps excitedly and takes the bottle back, pouring out a small amount into his hands. “Now, this is in short supply so until I get more of the oils I used you’ll have to let me wash your hair first and then you can dip the rest into the water. We still need to see if it cancels out the dog stench.”

“Go away,” He grunts when Jaskier tries getting his hair wet. He’ll accept an offering in apology but he’ll not let Jaskier _bathe_ him, for Gods’ sake.

“No, no! Your big, man-paws always waste all of the good soap. You’re letting me wash your hair and that’s final!” Jaskier tugs the bottle out of his reach and kicks over a footstool to sit behind him. “Dunk!” The bard orders and Geralt doesn’t entirely know why he listens to the other man except – if Jaskier doesn’t get his way then he complains. Yes, that has to be it.

Jaskier pulls him out of the water with a chuckle. “I know you’re trying to avoid this but don’t drown yourself, Geralt.”

“Hm,” He lets Jaskier work then. Tries not to enjoy the nimble fingers working tangles out of his hair. Jaskier is meticulous and thorough in his work, he scrubs and rinses and lathers until he thinks his hair’s never been this clean.

“There you go,” Jaskier dips his hands into the water to wash off the excess foam. “Now just wash it out and then you can have the rest. I need to go write down what I used for next time.” The bard pats him on the shoulder and then proceeds to putter around the room, shedding clothes and fiddling with his damaged garments.

Geralt washes the rest of the way in peace, enjoying the smell of the new soap that Jaskier had concocted more than he’d like to admit. Once the water’s cooled and his hair’s halfway dry already, he decides that he’s done.

“Oh, that’s all over the place.” Jaskier chimes in and steps up behind him like Geralt’s not arse-naked in the middle of the room. He feels gentle fingers tug at the hair on his temple, pulling it back and away from his face like he usually does. Jaskier takes some time with it before he ties it there at the back of his head.

“There, you may rest now, my friend!” The bard’s tone is light but there’s a fair bit of mischief in it. He spares a thought as to why why that might be before giving up due to the tired state of his mind and body.

“Ah – Geralt.”

“Get in the bed, Jaskier.” He grunts quietly. The bed appears to be big enough and seeing as Jaskier doesn’t move much during the night, they should be fine.

“But you just bathed and-”

“Do you _want_ to sleep on the ground, bard?” He turns to face the other who’s fiddling with the shiny rings on his fingers.

“No, no. It’s fine.” Jaskier drops his hands and walks over to the other side of the bed, gingerly getting in under the blankets.

Geralt shakes his head and puts on a pair of loose breeches before blowing out the light in the room. His eyes adjust to the darkness fairly quickly and he walks over to the unoccupied bedside.

In the morning as Jaskier is picking up his payment from the inn’s tavern, a small child – belonging to the busy barmaid – walks up to him with wide eyes that remind him of Jaskier in a way.

“That’s a nice ribbon you’ve got there, Mister!” The child giggles, her chubby cheeks stretching into a smile.

He squints and squats down so that he’s at eye-level with her. “Ribbon?”

“Yes,” She nods enthusiastically and points to his hair. “Pretty and golden!”

 _Jaskier,_ he thinks with a huff. He reaches up and feels around for where his hair is tied. Sure enough, there’s a silky ribbon there, holding his hair up by the base but as he feels down he realizes that Jaskier had braided the excess hair into a neat little plait and tied it off with the rest of the ribbon which means that the ribbon is interwoven into the plait itself.

“Do you want it?” He asks the girl and she shakes her head.

“Nuh-uh, it looks like it was a gift! You should take good care of it!” She giggles again and pats him on the head as if he were an overly-large dog. “Bye, Mister!”

And so the ribbon stays.

He stands back up and looks over at Jaskier who’s charming the owner out of a few more coins. Shaking his head he puts the swords back across his back. “Jaskier, come on!” He grunts just to watch the bard scramble away with a sheepish look on his face and bid the owner goodbye hastily.

* * *

“Geralt I don’t trust these men so I’m going to leave these with you.” The bard comes tittering towards him a couple of minutes after they’ve entered some lowly lord’s banquet hall. The bard continues talking but Geralt ignores him for the most part, too busy surveying all of the unsavory men strewn about various tables with a keen eyes, keeping an ear out for what they’re all talking about.

Jaskier grabs his hand and it serves to show how used to Jaskier’s tactile nature he is that he doesn’t immediately punch him in the face for it – on reflex, of course.

“So you see, you’ll be holding onto these.” And then Jaskier starts taking most of his many rings off and putting them onto Geralt’s fingers instead – well, the ones that fit anyway. “You and your _man-paws_.” Jaskier clicks his tongue and then threads the rest around the chain of his necklace and buckles it around Geralt’s neck, tucking them under his shirt. It all happens rather fast, definitely faster than he can protest and then Jaskier’s off. Leaving him with rings on his left hand – pinky, ring and index finger – and a dangly necklace tucked against his chest.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. They’re here on a contract, he reminds himself, they were _hired_. One of these men had managed to, _somehow_ , summon a wraith of some type and if they don’t find the one responsible, then mostly everyone in the room dies come midnight. So he can’t afford to get sidetracked by Jaskier’s trinkets and his posturing songs.

Closer to midnight than he would have liked, they catch the man with the cuts on his forearm where he’d bled to complete the spell. They find that the man has called the wraith forth to take revenge upon the local Lord for his misconduct when trialing his brother for the crimes he didn’t commit – yadda, yadda, yadda, the petty squabbles of men.

Geralt does the spell that detaches the man from the wraith and gets rid of it in the middle of the small hall. They cheer for him and Jaskier sings his songs, making the whole place alive with the sound of music yet again.

He sits down at one of the tables in the back and watches the show, tired and already groggy from the strain on his muscles. Fighting a wraith in close-quarters is never fun. He accepts the pint of ale someone slides him. The pint of ale is followed by a burly-looking woman, stocky in the upper body like she’s used to doing the heavy lifting and fighting.

“That was mighty impressive, Witcher.” She purrs, tipping her pint in his direction.

He hums, not sure where this conversation is going. He moves his eyes from her to Jaskier who narrowly avoids an outstretched hand from a man that looks very interested in what Jaskier’s tight blue pants are hiding. He snorts to himself, shaking his head. It would usually be more than likely that Jaskier would go with one of these people back to their bed but tonight, like always after a hunt; Jaskier will stick close to Geralt. He never asked why this is but he has an inkling of suspicion that Jaskier likes the added security of knowing a Witcher is nearby in case whatever it is that was slain either comes back or has friends.

“Your mouthy bard, he’s not of much help, is he?” The woman adds again, looking in the same direction as Geralt – who knows he’d been staring at Jaskier a little too intently for it to be inconspicuous.

“He doesn’t need to be.” Geralt grunts, he can do the job on his own – Jaskier doesn’t _need_ to help. He just needs to stay out of his way. Which he _doesn’t_ , most of the time.

“Ah, so it’s like _that_ , is it?” She chuckles lowly, pointing one of the fingers wrapped around her pint to the hand Geralt has on the table.

He frowns, looking down and noticing the rings there – most notably the one on his ring finger. Oh. _Oh._ Well _that_ certainly might be misinterpreted in certain parts of the kingdoms.

To his mortification, he feels heat crawling up the back of his neck. He doesn’t know why it’s suddenly making him squirm, the way she’s wiggling her eyebrows at him, but he feels the need to defend himself.

“No. We’re not-” He starts but Jaskier decides that now is the perfect moment for him to come barreling into Geralt’s side.

“Geralt, my dear!” The bard pants, looking back behind him. “I think we should go before either this fine man, stalking over here with that grin on his face that I don’t like or that lovely lady two tables down with the large bosom try to pin me down for a night of fun.” Jaskier pats him on the shoulder and then starts tugging him from the table, doing his most to move the Witcher’s stoic stance.

He grunts and catches the woman’s eye and he absolutely hates the salacious wink she throws back at him.

Well, best to vacate the premise, then.

“Couldn’t you have slept with one of them? I was enjoying my pint.” He grumbles, shaking Jaskier’s death grip off as they exit the hall.

“That ale was piss poor and you know it!” Jaskier groans. “Oh, right.” The bard captures his hand in his own slightly slimmer one and begins taking off the rings. “Thank you, for keeping these. One of the servant girls earlier tried to nip my brooch, I surely would have lost them – uh-oh.”

“What?” He grunts, looking down where the bard’s long fingers are wrapped around his ring finger.

“This one seems to be stuck.” Jaskier says mournfully. It’s a pretty ring, simple and silver, carved with some form of rudimentary knot-work of the northern warrior tribes of old. The bard rubs a finger over the silver band and Geralt’s stomach does a little unnecessary flip that he can’t place. “Guess we’ll have to leave it until we can pry it off without cutting your finger in the process.”

“We’ll get some oil eventually.” He rolls his eyes and lest Jaskier look at the ring for a few more moments before digging out the necklace from underneath his armor. “Here,” He thrusts the trinketry towards the bard, distracting him from the ring lost with shiny objects like one would a magpie.

“Ah, yes. I suppose I should stop going to places like this with so many valuables. Honestly, you’d think a Lord’s court would be a little more honest a place! The amount of filth I saw in there! This reminds me of back down in Belhaven when I was sent by the professor at the academy for-” And Geralt stops listening to him. Lets him prattle on about his misadventures and sticking his sausage in the wrong pantry while they walk back to where they left Roach.

He’s not overly concerned about the ring. They’ll get it off eventually, nothing a little oil can’t make slick. He glances down at it and frowns as his insides squirm. He hopes he hadn’t been poisoned at some point during the dinner.

He thinks it will be fine. Except they keep forgetting to get the oil and Geralt continuously gets asked if they’re _married_ which is ridiculous – why would a ring indicate if anyone was betrothed to someone else? But apparently, in this kingdom that they’re in – Lyria – it means that Geralt is _promised_ to Jaskier like some sort of _maiden._ He tries to ignore the way it makes his insides squirm but it makes his life difficult to the point of thinking that he’s sick.

When he contacts Triss to ask about it, and procure possible cures, she laughs in his face and then leaves like he hadn’t come begging for help.

* * *

Two weeks of women cooing over him and Jaskier and he’s about ready to chop his finger off. It makes him – it makes him want to give excuses and giving excuses means talking and he _hates_ talking more than he has to. Not to mention that it’s absolutely ruining his reputation. Having women _coo_ over him like he was – like he was _Jaskier –_ was bad for business. Soon he’ll be having small children tracking him across the yards – much like they are running after the bard right now.

He snorts, amused despite himself as Jaskier marches onwards around a green surface with five little sprogs singing back-up vocals for his silly little song. He continues washing Roach, getting out the swamp water grime and muck that had matted her short fur. He scrubs with the borrowed brush and dumps water onto her. She whinnies at the feeling of refreshing, cool water on such a warm day and he pats her flank fondly.

“No – now – don’t bother the nice Witcher man, please!” He hears Jaskier trying valiantly but ultimately failing to save him from the pitter-patter of little feet against the wet ground.

“Mister Witcher!” Three voices cheer at once and he hates how children don’t seem to be scared of him anymore. Another thing that Jaskier’s being blamed for at the moment.

“Hm?” He hums looking down at the three pairs of bright eyes that are staring at him in wonder.

“Come play with us, Mister Witcher! Please!” One of them, a little boy with corn colored hair tugs at the hem of his shirt.

“Please, Mister, the funny song man doesn’t believe we can get you to play with us!” Another little ankle-biter, a girl this time, jumps up and down excitedly, making a grab for his hand. The third one stays silent but he’s nodding in accordance with the other two. He looks back over at Jaskier who’s sitting on the grass surrounded by a field of buttercups and poppies. He’s looking at Geralt sheepishly, strumming his lute gently, and Geralt sighs.

“Just – let me finish this and then I’ll come join, okay?” He holds out a hand and the little girl’s eyes light up at the ring on his finger, her grabby fingers immediately darting to try and pry it off.

“Promise?” She asks, giving up on the ring, and he nods. The kids scatter away in a giggling heap and he shakes his head.

“Charming, aren’t they?” A woman, the mother of one of the kids, approaches him. She’s the owner of the stables he’s using at the moment and her husband is the owner of the adjacent inn where they’ll be staying – it’ll do him well to play nice for now.

“Hm,” He nods.

“Ah, you’ll see once you two have a couple of your own little pests.” She waves a hand at him cheerfully. “Go, join your beloved. I’ll finish up washing the saddle and I’ll even rinse your blankets for you, free of charge!” She shoos him away and he’s left standing there uselessly, wanting to protest but knowing there’s no use in it.

So he walks over to Jaskier very slowly, uncertain what the other could possibly want with him. And Jaskier watches him in turn, eyes a little too wide as Geralt drops down to sit amidst the kids.

“So, what are we doing?” He clears his throat, trying to soften his tone of voice.

“Well, I was going to teach them how to make flower wreaths.” Jaskier points to a collected pile of poppies, buttercups and daisies that sits in front of him in the middle of the makeshift circle.

“Another one of the many talents taught at Oxenfurt, I assume.” He snorts and picks a couple of flowers up.

“Ah, earlier than that. My mother used to make them for me and my siblings and I was the only one willing to learn how to make them with her.” Jaskier speaks in a lilting tone; like he’s telling a tale and the children all seem enraptured by him.

And this time, Geralt listens, too. He listens to the bard explaining the intricacies of wreath-making, how to best braid it for sturdiness. His nimble hands work with precision as he interweaves stalks and bendy branches to make a circlet blossoming with reds and yellows and whites. He’s fascinated and so are the children. All of them are waiting with baited breath as the bard finishes his explanation and comes to a halt, having finished the crown as well.

“And there you have it, a flower wreath.” Jaskier brandishes the crown proudly and then bestows it to the only girl amongst the spectators.

“I love it so much, Mister! I hope one day I’ll be able to make my own, too!” She rushes over on unsteady feet and hugs Jaskier, almost toppling him over from his cross-legged sit.

“Yes, well, practice makes perfect, little one. Anything you can put your mind to!” The bard pinches her cheek and she decides that she’s now going to sit in his lap and he accepts the child as if it were his own. He seems so comfortable with all of them and their countless questions that Geralt almost envies him.

“But perhaps this _is_ a little too advanced for you little pups.” Jaskier leans his chin on the girl’s head, careful not to disturb the circlet there. “How about just braiding, huh?” A cheer of consent among the rest of the children, most of which have hair long enough to braid due to the style of the kingdom and their customs.

“But – for that I will need the help of my glum friend over there. How ‘bout you get him to sit next to me, huh?” Jaskier grins cheekily at him and nudges the girl out of his lap. She immediately strikes a course for him. She and the two other boys from earlier urge him to his feet and Geralt obeys because he’s not really going to go up against children. So he sits next to Jaskier and tries to make himself as least imposing as he can.

“Ah, if only you were this good all the time, Geralt.” Jaskier nudges him with his shoulder and he grunts involuntarily, ignoring the sparks that dance across his skin at the brief contact. “Turn sideways so that the kids have a decent view. Alright, sprogs, partner up or just cluster around anyone whose hair is longer than whatever this child over here, Ihan, yes I remember, has.” Jaskier waves a hand at one of the boys with short hair, wiggling his fingers as the children laugh in delight at his clinking and sparkling rings.

“Now, there are many types of braids. The simplest would be Cintran braid that takes three wider strands of hair like this-” He feels Jaskier carefully combing his hair into three equal parts before he starts braiding further. “And then twists like this.” The bard demonstrates and most of the kids follow well.

“There are also the Temerian and Redanian braids but those are also a little advanced and require a comb. But perhaps you can learn the fishbone braid.” Jaskier decides and then launches into another tirade about what to put where. Geralt relaxes into the motion of his hair being combed through by gentle fingers and lets Jaskier’s patient voice wash over him.

“And there you have it, a fishtail braid!” Jaskier announces happily once he’s done dealing with his hair. “I hope you’ve all learned a thing or two here today!”

Geralt watches as the children complain due to their varying degrees of success and watches Jaskier dedicate time to going over it all again to each one of them that did the braiding so that they can show the others once they leave. It’s getting close to supper now; Geralt’s stomach reminds him that he hadn’t eaten since morning.

“Thank you, Mister J-” And then they each butcher Jaskier’s name to the point of where they’re just making noises which makes Geralt crack with a sudden laugh.

“Yes, yes, Geralt, laugh it up, mister – I’ve got a _basic_ name that everyone knows.” Jaskier pats him down with a couple of frantic and annoyed movements that Geralt can’t place until Jaskier procures the golden ribbon tucked around one of his straps that he’d forgotten was there. The bard turns him around and ties the ribbon around the end of the braid into a bow.

“I’ll have you know, I choose to call myself Jaskier because it’s _charming_ and Julian Alfred is just so _drab_.” Jaskier herds the kids away from the sight of the setting sun and towards the town, trusting them to know where to go to get to their own homes.

“It certainly matches your personality.” He mutters, trying to avoid some of the kids that are trying to climb him like a tree.

“Come now, Geralt, be nice.” Jaskier chastises gently and picks up one of the little boys, the child is babbling something at him, clearly younger than the rest and Jaskier nods as if he understands completely. It’s – _endearing_.

He sighs, hating how easily he gives in to the bard sometimes, and picks up three of the kids. One hops on to sit on his shoulders and he holds the two others under each arm.

“Alright, you little rat-bastards! Scoundrels and thieves, pirates and mariners! Show me to ye quarters so that you may dine and feast and put your little heads to rest before you’re befallen by the beast!” Jaskier announces cheerfully, exaggerating his stomping and twisting around as he spins another tale to entertain them on their way back into the village. “What sort of beast, you may ask? Nay, you may not! But I shall tell it nevertheless – so that you may know what to look for if the beast you should witness! It’s got teeth gnashing, eyes as red as the poppies in your hair. It’s got _horns and spikes scattered everywhere._ For it _yowls_ and _prowls_ all through the night, giving chase to those that it encounters, always looking for a fight!” Jaskier twirls, lowering his eyebrows and his tone of speech.

“You think you can outrun it but it will catch up fast; the beast’s many long legs, it’s stride wide and vast. Outrun it you can’t, for that fact it is true but other methods are known that, if you follow, could save you.” Jaskier bends over to keep his voice low and conspiratorial, as if he’s imparting these children with some great knowledge and not just a story that they’ll forget in the morning.

“Follow my words, little sprogs of the town, go home to your mothers and the supper she’s prepared for you down. Help her clean the table, help her wash the bowls for the beast hates nothing more than the sound of banging pots and pans and closing drawers. Then go to bed and think of something _light_ , blow out your candles and you should be safe for the night.” Jaskier twirls the blubbering child in his arms around with flourish as the other children stare at him in amazement.

“And what of the next day?!” One of the little ones asks, clearly worried.

“It’s a method tried and true. And every night you think that the beast is near, repeat the process and it will disappear.” Jaskier lets the toddler down and one of the children, a possible sibling, takes him by the hand.

“Thank you for singing for us, funny song man.” The little girl grins up at Jaskier and the bard crouches down as Geralt lowers the three kids that are still clinging to him stubbornly to the ground.

“Of course, little lady, I’m always happy to sing for a great crowd. You’ve been very inspiring.” Jaskier taps the tip of her nose with his finger and she giggles, does it back at him and then pinches his cheek.

The children all scatter then and Jaskier straightens up, a gentle smile on his face that has Geralt’s slow-beating heart making a valiant effort at speeding up. He grimaces at himself.

“At least it rhymed this time.” He turns back around, heading towards the inn.

“Hey! Not every great song has to rhyme, Geralt! There’s nuance in poetics!” The bard complains, launching into another tirade about his education and what constitutes as a good song and a good poem and Geralt lets him.

And somehow, the ring stays.

* * *

Sometimes, Geralt thinks that Jaskier is just a little bit magic. Sometimes he thinks that the bard is good magic – like the little specs of light he sees floating around the air in the early dawn filtering through the forest that make him feel weightless. And sometimes he thinks that the bard is threading the line of chaos – on the verge of being too powerful for his own good, the tempest of man and beast alike.

In this particular moment, he’s not entirely sure _what_ the bard is.

“Geralt, good lord Asclepius, Geralt! Please don’t die on me!” Jaskier pleads, cradling his head against his knees. “Please hold on, Triss is on her way, please. Oh, that damn druid! When I get my fucking hands on him! I’ll spill his guts with my fingers, I swear!”

“It’s the poison – I’ll be fine, Jaskier.” He closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to see the tears welling up in the other’s as he furiously curses the druid in question out. It had been a simple hunt – go find the Wyvern near the village and tame it for the druid there who promised to pay a hefty price. It had all gone sideways when the Wyvern had refused to focus on Geralt and kept coming for Jaskier instead. He was forced to act rashly and ended up knocked to the ground.

He’d killed the damned thing, regardless of the druid’s wishes because he wasn’t going to let Jaskier get hurt, but not before it had gotten a good swipe at the side of his head. He knows he must look ghastly, drenched in gore and still sluggishly bleeding from the head wound – all over Jaskier’s golden silks, no less.

“Hold on, please. She’s gathering her things, she’ll be here.” Jaskier sobs, cradling his face and bending down to hover over him. “Please don’t die on me, Geralt.”

The tone of voice, the pleading words, Jaskier’s gentle hands, it all makes Geralt dizzy. Though, that might also be the poison. He knows it’s not nearly enough to kill him but it will put him out of commission for a couple of days. He dislikes that he’s scaring the bard like this, that Jaskier’s worried for nothing.

“ _Julian_ ,” He grunts and Jaskier shudders a little, his sniffling halting for a moment. “I’ll be fine. Trust me, yeah?”

Jaskier chuckles wetly, “Yeah. Yes, alright. You’ll be fine.”

He tries for a smile and Jaskier gives one in turn – wobbly around the edges as it is, it makes Geralt feel better. Last he sees before darkness reclaims him is a portal opening up on the side and Triss stepping out and then Jaskier’s blue, _blue_ eyes.

* * *

His eyes open to see an unfamiliar ceiling and his instincts rear back around the corner and he jolts upwards, wincing as he’s immediately hit with a wave of dizziness.

“Oh, no, no, no, no! Stay down, you oversized _werebear_!” Jaskier’s shrill voice pierces his brain and he winces, dropping back down involuntarily.

“Where-” He coughs, his throat feeling parched and scratchy. Jaskier brings a cup of water to his lips and he drinks gratefully in big gulps.

“We’re – ah, somewhere safe. I’m not sure where exactly. Triss patched you up and then kicked us out of her house because it’s too dangerous to be sticking around over there or something. So I’ve spent the three days that you’d been out cold here with, um, Yennefer.” The bard clears his throat. “She hasn’t threatened to murder me in cold blood yet so don’t worry.”

He blinks rapidly at the talking man and then closes his eyes. An issue for another time. He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until the next time he opens his eyes he doesn’t smell, see or hear Jaskier anywhere near him and then he panics.

“Calm down, you brute, he went to fetch some water from the well.” Yennefer’s voice enters his ears before the rest of her catches up and she walks over to the chair that Jaskier had last occupied.

“Where are we?” He grunts, hoping to at least get _some_ information.

“Somewhere safe, don’t worry.” She rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t have let your bard out on his own if it weren’t safe. Do not mistake me for a fool, Geralt. I wish to keep my head on my shoulders.”

“Hm.” He looks around the sparsely-furnished room that somehow still manages to look like it belongs to a rich household.

“He needed the fresh air; he’d been at your bedside for three days straight. Barely slept, barely eaten more than a bowl of stew. His loyalty is impressive even if his presumptions that I’d want to poison you are wrong.” Yennefer chuckles, leaning forwards to tilt his head to the side and away from her. “I hope you don’t mind but we had to make some adjustments to your hair so that Triss could properly sew up the gash.”

Releasing him, she stands. He watches her amble over to a table with a large mirror and then pick up a smaller, hand-held one.

“Of course, the bard had taken to doing the rest and wouldn’t let either of us help.” She hands him the mirror and he’s mildly scared of what he’ll find once he looks.

So he takes a deep breath and – and, well. Jaskier is well and truly talented in various aspects of the arts – braiding hair being no exception. There are two braids running the side of his head with a smaller twisting one below it. Two fingers worth of length above the ear has been shorn down to the shortest length and he sees Triss’ neat patchwork that’s holding the still-healing wound together. The braids are symmetrical on both sides and they’re tied at the back of his head with the golden ribbon he’d been gifted. But the craftsmanship doesn’t stop there. There’s a tangle of smaller braids and then one big one that looks very complicated and that’s decorated with one of Jaskier’s smaller rings. Another smaller braid is laced through with one of Jaskier’s golden chains and tied off with more of golden ribbon. The rest of his hair is tied into loose ponytail but at the middle of his head he can feel that the hair lifted from the front has been braided into the Redanian braid that Jaskier had mentioned. It makes him feel – weird. His stomach clenches at the thought of Jaskier taking care of his hair while he’d been out cold; at the thought of Jaskier taking care of _him._

“He’s certainly done a marvelous job,” Yennefer hums, unaware of the internal battle going on inside Geralt’s head.

“Of course, what’s interesting is that you _let_ him. He’s from Kerack isn’t he?” She runs a finger over one of the braids and Geralt flinches away, looking at her with squinted eyes.

“What of it?” He grumbles, wondering what she has to gain from knowing where Jaskier is from.

She takes his hand and lifts it up, tapping the ring there. “Quite the piece, don’t you think? Certainly doesn’t look like any ol’ thing that you’d pick up at the market. My coin’s on _heirloom_. How long have you been carrying it around?”

He looks down at the silver ring gleaming under the candlelight, “It’s stuck.”

“Oh, is it, now?” She covers his hand in hers and then the next moment the ring is in her palm.

A sudden wave of protectiveness surges up inside him, irrationally making him grab her wrist. “No.” He grunts in distress, taking the ring back and sliding it onto his finger without thinking about it twice.

“Oh, Geralt, you poor, simple, _man.”_ She grins at him sharply, “They never _did_ teach you Witchers much about tradition and customs, did they? Never needed it, I’m sure. Monsters, not men, is what’s of interest after all.”

“What do you want?” He growls lowly, sick of her pretty words and embellished chidings. “Out with it.”

“The Kerack culture, like some others of the shoreline kingdoms and cities, finds gems and precious metals to be a rare commodity. Since they don’t have access to their own mines, they have to buy the precious gems and metals off of traders, they’re poor kingdoms. So gifts such as fine silks, _scents_ and jewelry are reserved only for things like when they crown a new king, elect a new lord, get betrothed or marry.” She explains calmly, listing off the occasions like she relishes in educating Geralt on why he’d been an idiot. “And these gifts are shared between the closest of friends, family members or _Lovers.”_ She bares her teeth at him briefly before leaning back. “So what I’m trying to say, my dear Witcher is-”

“No. The ring was an accident. The ribbons were a necessity. The soap was a – a thank you gift. For saving his life. Multiple times.” He desperately wants for this conversation to be over.

“Braids are a traditional sign of _fancy_ in Kerack, too. How many times has he taken to your hair, huh? He knows that you’re uncultured so he was probably never worried about that part making you aware of his adoration. But, oh, Geralt.” She stands up, straightening out the lower part of her dress. “Your bard has been marking his territory, well aware that anyone who knows customs will see the little ways in which he has left his trace on you and back off. They’re all courting rituals in Kerack.”

“Why are you telling me this?” He grinds out, hands clenched around the blankets covering him.

“To spare you the internal suffering, Geralt. You obviously _feel_ for the mouthy little minstrel, so – you know, go and do something about it.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Trust me; he’s more than willing to accept your adoration _and_ your cock.”

“Yen.” He grunts, looking away from her to avoid the piercing purple gaze.

“ _Trust_ me, Geralt, it’s worth it. Allow yourself some happiness. Now, I’ll be gone for a couple of days. You’re free to use the house until I return but if I find anything broken or damaged, I _will_ require compensation.” She claps her hands and opens up a portal. “Until next time, Witcher.” And then she’s gone with a wink.

He doesn’t get much time to think about her words because the next moment, Jaskier is bounding into the room with a bucket of water in his hands. He looks a little out of sorts, not as impeccably dressed as usual. He’s lacking the doublet and the sleeves of his blouse are rolled up to his elbows. He looks a little disheveled but _good_ nonetheless. The bard raises his gaze from the ground and meets Geralt’s.

It’s like watching flowers blossom in springtime, like watching the sun rise in the morning, his eyes water a little from the intensity of Jaskier’s widening smile.

“Geralt!” Jaskier almost drops the bucket in his haste to get to his bedside. “You’re awake! You’re okay!”

“Told you I’d be fine.” He hums, sitting up a little.

“Yes, but you always say that!” Jaskier whines, putting the bucket onto the table before coming back and sitting onto the bed next to Geralt’s hip – close enough for Geralt to feel how warm he is.

“And I’m always fine.” He holds out his left hand, palm up and Jaskier looks at it with wide eyes before placing his own in it. “Thank you, for taking care of me.”

“Oh – oh. No, I just – called for Triss and she did most of the work.” Jaskier, cheeks pink, looks down at their linked hands.

“How _did_ you call Triss?” He tilts his head, trying to catch the other’s gaze. There’s something vulnerable playing across Jaskier’s face that Geralt can’t pin down.

“She gave me a xenovox last time. After the whole mess with the Striga, she was worried about you getting seriously hurt again. She gave it to me because she knew you’d never call even _if_ you were injured. Stupid, stubborn, _mulish_ Witcher.” Jaskier hisses the last part out, chastising him and his carelessness.

“I don’t regret getting hurt. It was going after you and my chances of survival were much higher than yours.” Geralt explains slowly, hoping not to agitate the bard if he uses reason and logic.

“That’s stupidly brave and honourable,” Jaskier snorts. “I’m glad you’re alright.” The bard’s thumb rubs over the silver band on his finger and Geralt is suddenly very aware of how he’s leaning slightly towards Jaskier in anticipation of _something_.

Ever-so-slowly, it all slides into place.

The way he’s always allowing Jaskier to get away with things like touching him so carelessly. The way Jaskier takes it upon himself to tend to his wounds and the fact that he lets him. The way that his stomach clenches in distress every time someone gets too close to Jaskier in his line of sight. The way he’d thought that he was becoming ill when his stomach started fluttering every time Jaskier was unbearably _endearing_ or charming. Oh – well. He certainly _is_ as dense as Yennefer and Triss always claim that he is. But – well, he’s not going to give himself a hard time about it. It’s been a while since he’s felt anything for anyone – let alone for someone as ridiculous as his bard.

“Jaskier,” He clears his throat and the bard startles, sky-blue eyes meeting his.

“Hm?” Jaskier hum, a slight pout on his lips as he tilts his head.

How did he get this lucky? Lucky enough to be able to travel by this man’s side and lucky enough to be able to watch him prosper and flourish and hone his craft. Certainly, he’s been a fool up until now. He’ll never admit it but he’ll forever be thankful to Yennefer for pointing out the obvious to him.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” He asks and Jaskier’s face contorts, pallor overtaking his complexion. Geralt grasps at his wrist, not letting the other get too far.

“Uh, um. Tell you what?” Jaskier’s voice pitches higher like it always does when he’s nervous and his scent sours a little.

“About the gifts – and the braids.” He takes a page out of Jaskier’s book and rubs a thumb over the inside of the bard’s wrist to settle him down lest he try and bolt away.

Jaskier’s face becomes sullen then, looking away uncertainly. “Who told you?”

“Yen.” He admits and Jaskier grunts angrily with a muttered _of course_. “And I’m glad she did.”

“What?” Jaskier turns to look at him fully again, something in his neck cracking with the suddenness of the move.

“I’m glad she told me what they meant. What you’ve been doing like a sly little fox.” He smiles as the blush on the other’s cheeks brightens.

“I’m sorry I – it doesn’t have to mean anything. I just like – I like giving you things. And giving gifts is how we best express affection. That and, well, physical touch. But I know you’re not a fan of that.” Jaskier isn’t meeting his eyes and Geralt hates that the other is so insecure about his gentle words. He almost wishes that Jaskier would try and charm him like one of his usual conquests. He wishes Jaskier would strut up to him with that unbearable grin, fluttering hands and twinkling rings and offer to start a conversation with him by using some stupid excuse and – well. Isn’t that exactly what Jaskier did the first time they met? _You wouldn’t keep a man with bread in his pants waiting?_ What kind of line is that?

“And what would it mean – if it meant something?” He slides his hand down to let Jaskier’s palm rest in his again.

“Geralt don’t ask me to bare my soul to you only for you to take a stab at it and leave.” Jaskier smiles ruefully, voice low and pleading.

“I’d never.” He declares firmly and Jaskier takes in a sharp little breath.

“The braids. My mother taught me about them. They’re a sign of trust by the person receiving them and a sign of care by the one braiding. To let someone that close to your neck, your face, so many delicate and sensitive parts of you – it shows that you trust the person. And to thread strands of hair together carefully and gently, decorating them as you go, means that you appreciate the trust and that you care deeply enough in turn.” Jaskier reaches with his free hand and runs a finger over the smallest of the braids.

“I know you weren’t exactly conscious for these but my hands couldn’t stop fretting and I didn’t feel like playing anything so instead I’d busies myself with these. I know they don’t mean much to everyone, to some it’s just a show of comradeship and to some it makes sense to keep hair tied so that it doesn’t get in the way. But I’d always braided my siblings’ hair to either calm them or myself down.” The bard explains steadily and Geralt tilts his head; hears how the gold in his braids jingles melodically at the movement.

“So you care about me like one would for a rowdy sibling?” He teases, trying to see if he can coax an admission out of the bard.

“No, you dolt!” Jaskier flicks him on the ear. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed. I thought you were being polite – uninterested.”

“Have you ever known me to be polite?” He raises an eyebrow and Jaskier chuckles.

“That’s a fair point. But you’re forgetting that I also know that you’d rather leave me by the side of the road than talk about your feelings.” The bard rolls his eyes with another small laugh.

“I – a fair point, indeed. But – you should have told me sooner regardless.” He’s determined now, to see this conversation through to the end.

“And why’s that?” Jaskier sneers, mouthy and feral like an auburn-colored fox trying to intimidate larger predators – still mostly endearing.

“So that I could have gotten my wits about me and done this sooner.” He makes sure to make his intentions very clear as he cups the side of Jaskier’s face, bringing him closer to his own.

He intends on taking it slow, making it gentle and sweet – something to savor – but then Jaskier does the unexpected again and surges up against him. Jaskier’s fluttering hands grip the side of his neck as his tongue pries open Geralt’s mouth in a delightful display of debauchery. He grunts as the bard climbs on top of the bed in hurried, jerky movements, hands gripping wherever they land with surprising strength.

He groans as Jaskier bites at his bottom lip in his haste to get as close as he can. “Jaskier.” He tugs his mouth away reluctantly. “Slow down, I’m not going anywhere.” He steadies the other’s hips and Jaskier whines.

“ _Three years_ , you insufferable brute, I’ve been patient enough!” Jaskier growls against his cheek with his teeth bared and Geralt despises the way his cock gives a valiant twitch at that, very interested in the situation. “I’ve waited long enough – more than that. I never thought I’d-”

“Hey,” He slides his hands up the other’s sides and under his billowing shirt. “Hey now. _I’m not going anywhere._ ” He promises, causing Jaskier to slump against him like his strings have been cut. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize. I would have gotten there eventually, even without the added help, but I’m glad she helped speed up the process.”

“I’m sorry, I just. Alright. You’re here, you’re alright.” Jaskier breathes him in deeply, running his nose down under his chin and along his jaw.

Geralt shudders, wondering once again about how Jaskier had managed to worm his way under his skin and close to every vulnerable part of him. He thumbs along the other’s ribs, enjoying how Jaskier whines at the touch.

“Geralt,” The bard meets his eye and he realizes that he’d been staring adoringly at the other in silence for probably much too long without doing anything to further their evening into a more pleasurable one. “Have you had enough time to catch up now? Or do you need more time to stare at me sappily before I can suck your cock?”

“Gods,” He chuckles, voice a little strangled as Jaskier climbs into his lap. “Can’t I appreciate the sights?”

“Get me naked and then you can.” Jaskier’s grin is infectious and Geralt can’t help but laugh.

“Alright, then, off.” He grunts. He slides his hands upwards again, this time bringing the blouse up with him. Jaskier writhes at the gentle touch to his soft skin.

Jaskier raises his arms to let the shirt be tugged off and then tosses it to the side. He then rises to his knees and undoes his loose breeches, very slowly, while making direct eye-contact with him. And Geralt doesn’t know where to look first. To the expanse of Jaskier’s chest or to where his hips are slowly being exposed to the candlelight, he’s a man who’s just gotten his eyesight back after years of walking through life blindly. Slowly, Jaskier gets more and more naked until there’s nothing between Geralt’s hands and the other’s pale but strong thighs.

“You planning on joining me in the nude any time soon, Geralt?” Jaskier lifts an arm, stretching it out in the air, and runs the fingers of his other hand down the length of it teasingly, trailing his fingers lower and lower still until they wrap around his hardness.

“I don’t know, I might just keep my pants on.” His eyes are glued to the slide of the other’s hand up and down his admirable length.

“Oh? The hard leather ones? Mm.” Jaskier releases his on need and tugs at the blanket that’s covering Geralt’s lower half. “That can’t be comfortable, though.” The man on top of him pouts dangerously and Geralt hums.

“They’ve kept worse beasts away from my skin.” He nudges the bard’s hands away as they inch towards the buttons fastening his pants.

Jaskier whines, doing his best at playing Geralt’s heartstrings like an instrument he’s prolific in. “Geralt! How am I supposed to get fucked then?!”

“Mm, guess you’ll have to trust me to do the work, then.” He sits up pulling himself back against the headboard of the hardwood bed. “But, if you’re willing, I’d be more than thrilled to watch you spread yourself for me, little songbird.”

Jaskier’s hips twitch almost uncontrollably. “Well, then I’ll need to know what I’m preparing for!” The bard tries again and Geralt feels only a little bad for prolonging the other’s wait.

“You’ve seen me naked before, Jaskier.” He points out, only now, in retrospect, aware of the bard’s wandering eyes and fluttering hands when he _did_ see Geralt without any clothes on.

“Why are you being difficult?” Jaskier smacks both of his palms against his chest, palms dragging down the exposed and scarred skin. “Do you even _want_ to fuck me? I’ll make it good for you, I promise.” The bard purrs, digging his nails into his sides and making it sting a little.

“I’m being difficult because you won’t let me take my time with you.” He sighs, pulling the other down until they’re nose to nose. “I don’t want this to be a quick fuck, Jaskier. I want to take my time and cherish you, discover what pleases you at my own pace.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath and then looks at him sternly. “If you’re really here, if you’re serious about this, Geralt, then you’ll have time for exploration. Right now, I need reassurance that you’re fine and that – that you _are_ serious. Physical affection, this is the purest form of sowing love.”

Geralt’s chest twinges at the word, ribcage stuttering a little as he inhales sharply and smells Jaskier and his scent – like the forest surrounding a mountain spring, like the air before a storm, charged lightning and lindens. “If that’s what you wish for the most, then I have no choice but to oblige.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Jaskier kisses him, softer this time but no less passionate. He lets the bard control the pace, allows himself to get lost in the feeling of it all. The skin under his hands, the weight on top of his lap, the hands on his neck.

“Oil, Jaskier.” Geralt grunts, nudging the bard away.

“Mm, be right back.” Jaskier saunters away with his arse on display, hips swaying and his walk cocky.

Geralt stares for a moment before deciding to indulge the other. He takes off his pants and throws them over the chair without getting up. He catches sight of a sudden movement over in the corner of the room and he turns to look on instinct just to catch sight of Jaskier bending over and _oh_. Oh, he’s definitely going to want to take Jaskier bent over that table with the mirror over there eventually. Possibly in a couple of hours.

His cock twitches, curving upwards now that it’s free of the constricting leather. He grips himself and starts up a slow stroke, watching Jaskier try and find what he’s looking for. And he’s never really seen Jaskier dressed more than losing his doublet here or there. The bard is surprisingly fit for someone who doesn’t do anything too strenuous. He’s lean but wider in the shoulders than he appears when he’s hunched in on himself and his arms are built like he’d known heavy lifting in the past. And maybe he had, it’s not like Geralt had asked. He plans on changing that, though. He plans on listening more and being better – because he’s lucky to have Jaskier by his side and now he knows it, too.

“Started without me?” Jaskier pouts at him across the room, bottle of oil in his hands at last.

“For someone willing to rush things, you sure are taking long enough.” He grins back and Jaskier starts striding towards the bed purposefully again.

The bard straddles him again, one hand already reaching towards his length and the other expertly popping open the bottle of oil and dripping some of it onto the both of them. “Who knew you were so chatty, Witcher?” Jaskier sneers, grabbing both their lengths into one of his long-fingered hands.

He grunts, closing his eyes briefly as Jaskier’s grip constricts. “Never had this much to say.” He watches the other’s hand move, feels the warm, hard length against his and loves how much Jaskier seems to be restraining himself from just rutting into the grip ineffectively.

“Gods, Geralt, look at that thing.” Jaskier bends his head down, almost enough that Geralt can feel his warm breath washing over where his hand is moving rapidly over their lengths. “Can’t wait to have it in me, can’t wait to have you splitting me in half.” The bard groans, mouth open and thighs clenching at the thought.

“What are you waiting for then?” He growls, feeling just a little bit unhinged as Jaskier keeps his mouth open so close to his cock. He feels like his entire body is thrumming even as he keeps still and lets Jaskier work at his own speed. He wishes the other had allowed him to take his time. The sounds he would have coaxed out of the other would have been divine. But he’ll settle for the frantic pants that the other’s releasing as he strokes them off for now.

“Geralt,” The bard whines. “Ah – fuck.”

He knows that what little self-control Jaskier has is about to go up in flames so he grips the bard’s wrist and pulls his hand away from their cocks. He uses the other hand to grip the base of Jaskier’s until the bard is keening into the side of his neck.

“I’ve got a lot of stamina, Jaskier. You best make yourself last as long as you can.” He croons into the other’s ear and feels Jaskier shuddering.

“Yes – yes, alright.” The other collects himself quickly and then gets to oiling up his fingers.

And sat there, Geralt can’t really see anything but the arch of the other’s torso backwards, the twitching of his cock and the furrowing of his brows. He can imagine it, imagine Jaskier spreading himself on his fingers and fucking himself down onto them, desperately in anticipation of Geralt’s girth.

“So pretty, little songbird.” He praises, running his hands up the other’s thighs in reassurance. “So good for me.”

“Fuck, _only for you_!” Jaskier promises, a lengthy whine leaving his pink lips. His eyes are half-lidded but Geralt swears that they’re glowing bright blue. He smells so charged and so much like _comfort_ that Geralt would be worried if he hadn’t already realized why that is. And it’s – well, it’s true. He’s seen Jaskier shoot down other men in a brutal fashion when he wanted to, had seen him threatening violence upon unsuspecting brutes, but the bard had only ever been sweet and maddeningly placid with him. Somewhere along the way, Jaskier had decided that Geralt was worthy of his attentions and stuck by his side.

“Geralt. Geralt, I’m ready, please.” Jaskier pulls his fingers free and then wraps them around his length.

He groans, sitting up a little straighter and tugging the other closer by the grip on his hips. “Go easy.”

“Oh – _oh, yes.”_ Jaskier drawls out as he begins lowering himself onto his hard length.

He closes his eyes at the onslaught of warmth and the tightness despite Jaskier preparing himself before hand. The hand on his shoulder is clenched into his muscles like it’ll take all of Geralt’s might to pry it off and the one on his thigh is definitely leaving bruises there. Ever so slowly, Jaskier drops himself down onto his entire length, panting like a parched dog with his chest heaving and glistening from sweat.

“Gods, Jaskier. Perfect,” He catches the other’s mouth in a sloppy kiss, open-mouthed and full of panted breaths as Jaskier adjusts to the intrusion. He keeps as still as he can but his cock still twitches as Jaskier clenches around him tentatively.

The rhythm the other sets is slow at first, unsure little bounces that slowly become more sure. And then Geralt is swept up in the visage that the other makes as he takes his pleasure from Geralt’s cock – with his scrambling, fluttering, hands grasping at any part of him that they get a hold of and with his mouth open and letting out a perpetual stream of curses and moans.

“Geralt – Geralt, I’m – Gods, I haven’t slept in two days, do something, you useless shit!” Jaskier smacks him on the chest and the sound rings out through the room along the sounds of his arse meeting Geralt’s thighs.

“Thought you didn’t want me going at my own pace.” He grins, already planning what he’ll do. “I don’t think I like your language, bard.”

“If you would stop being a spiteful, shitty, fucking- Ah!” Jaskier yelps as Geralt picks him up by the hips, scrambling to hold onto him as he uses the grip to bring the other with him as he gets to his knees. “You!” The rest of the sentence gets cut off as Geralt effortlessly continues slamming him down onto himself, thrusting at half the frantic speed that Jaskier had been going at.

“Useless, huh? Mouthy, _mouthy._ ” He grunts and then pulls Jaskier off himself, manhandling him until he’s kneeling with his back to Geralt. He spreads the others cheeks as Jaskier tries to find purchase and slips inside, causing the other to let out a shuddery moan. “It would do you some good to be polite to the man you’re depending on for your climax.”

“I can come myself, thank you very m- fuck!” Jaskier mewls as Geralt slips a hand under one of his arms and across his chest to shove fingers into his mouth.

“Keep quiet.” He warns, dragging the index and middle finger of his left hand along the other’s tongue. He stars thrusting again, pulling the other back against him with a grip on his hips. Jaskier gurgles around his fingers, trying to say something but not being able to because Geralt tips his head further – back until it’s laying against his shoulder.

“That’s it, those whiny little moans only, love.” He spreads his thighs for better purchase and keeps thrusting until Jaskier is a mess of incoherent noises, his cock leaking against his abdomen and his chin slick with drool.

“You close?” He asks the bard and Jaskier attempts a nod. He takes mercy on the other and grips his length in his right hand. “Come on.”

It takes a handful of strokes, a couple of more moments of Jaskier being unable to decide if he loves the pleasure or wants to escape it, before the other finishes with a loud moan. Geralt watches across his shoulder as the bard paints himself with his own come and hums, pleased. He worries his teeth along the other’s shoulder, slowing his thrusts down and pulling his fingers out of his mouth.

“Geralt, _Geralt.”_ Jaskier’s panicked whine gives him pause. “Don’t – don’t’ pull out. Stay, please.”

“Hm,” He keeps thrusting then, at an leasurely pace as Jaskier keeps shuddering and clenching around him. It’s almost lazy, the sensation that washes over him as he comes. It’s not a frantic crescendo of sensations. Instead it’s a warm blanket of every positive and tingly feeling that he could have ever felt covering him from head to toe. He heaves out a heavy breath, slumping back onto his heels and feels Jaskier following him, practically sitting in his lap again.

“Oh – that was – that was _lovely.”_ Jaskier purrs, words slurring together.

“You haven’t slept?” He brings his arms around the other, careful not to dislodge the softening length from the other, and tips them over to the side so that they’re lying down chest to back.

Jaskier chuckles. “I was too worried. I couldn’t – every time I closed my eyes I just kept imagining the worst possible scenario. So I stayed awake.” The bard explains, nestling back against his chest with a little wiggle.

“Sleep now, then, little songbird. We’ll clean up when you wake.” He places his hand over the other’s heart and Jaskier’s fingers cover his.

The bard traces the ring on his finger and Geralt can practically feel the grin on his face. “It’s still there.”

“Yen took it off me earlier.” He admits and Jaskier starts tensing up so he hurries to finish. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt panic like that before. I grabbed it from her and put it back on.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice is a little whiny. “That’s sweet, that’s so, _so_ sweet.”

“It – I didn’t know how much it meant until it was gone.” He nuzzles the back of the other’s neck, kissing the skin there gently.

“I’m glad you kept it, it’s – it was my mother’s – well, my grandfathers actually. Given to him by his beloved _friend_ the Lord of-”

“Jaskier.” He squeezes the other in warning. “Go to sleep, you’ll tell me in the morning.”

Sighing dramatically, Jaskier concedes. “Fine. But only because I love you.”

He closes his eyes, bright light dancing in his heads still. “Love you, too, little songbird.” 

**Author's Note:**

> And as always, hmu on [tumblr where theres art of geralt with the braids](https://marionettefthjm.tumblr.com/post/190342683260/its-geralt-but-hes-got-braids-nowrel=) and on twitter @marionettefthjm


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